Dragon Age: Coalescence
by existentialnovice
Summary: The once Inquisitor, Grayson Trevelyan, has spent the last three years alone searching for answers and a way of saving the Dread Wolf from himself and the world from him. When the tide of luck finally seems to turn in his favour, a raven finds him with news of a fallen companion, and coincidence doesn't occur naturally in Thedas. (Set post Trespasser and inclusive of DA:O/DA2/DA:I)
1. Where do all the good elves go?

Chapter One; Where do all the good elves go?  
He didn't know why he expected anything different this time. He guessed that the small part of him that still held the ability to hope wasn't housed in his left hand, otherwise he may be rid of that too. Yet the Ghilain Dalish camp was just as barren as all the others that he had managed to track down. Small clothes clung to dry on frayed ropes between trees, weapons and armours were left lazily strewn outside open tents and half empty cups and bowls littered tables and stumps all around. With each camp he found, he hoped to find a clue as to why the elves would leave so quickly as to take nothing with them, not even their treasured tomes on Elven history that the Dalish so protected against all odds. Perhaps it was because they discovered that most of their memories were in fact nothing but mistranslated lies and whispers, whispers that have only grown more and more distorted across the ages. Or perhaps a great beast or plague urged them to flee with such haste, or a flood, slide or storm. The retired Inquisitor's questions remained unanswered. What did remain however, was the unease in the air; a sense of unease was generally felt by all travelling the footpaths of the Brecilian Forrest. Except when it came to the camp of the clan it was a sense of unease enough to caution the likes of bandits and looters, spiders and birds, from entering and plundering what remained. He drove his longsword into the ground outside what he deduced was the tent and cart of the clans Keeper and began to plunder through the haystack of books and grimoires.

He grunted and exhaled deeply as he was immediately met with nothing more than more of the same. Transcribed lore of the Elvhen pantheon, healing tonics, a daemonology index, a census of the clans members etc. Hours passed, words blurred across the page and the once Inquisitor decided it was drawing time to call the Ghilain Clan just another dead end. He fell to his knees and dropped his head to his hand, eyes fixed on the ground, feeling numb except for the breath that he let in and out and the weight of his eyelids. He exited the tent and sat on a stump next to a rack of dry wood left next to a long extinguished burning fire. He thought about how Corypheus hadn't managed to see him to the side of any god or maker, how many had tried and none had succeeded. But this quest for answers, to save his friend, may just drive him to that point. He couldn't take another dead end. Another month of searching the furthest corners of damp woods and rocky coastlines and high mountains only to find another quickly abandoned camp to learn yet another method of effectively mixing elfroot. He threw fresh wood on the old fire and lit it, deciding simultaneously to rest there for the night before returning to Drakons River and back to Denerim, empty handed.

He imagined that outside the camp the forest would be alive with the howls of wolves and yet under his particular spot of moonlight within the camp, the only sound was the rumble of his stomach, the blood in his ears and the crackling of the fire. He longed for the comfort of Skyhold, the warmth of his beloved next to him. The breath on the back of his neck. He raised his hand to the pendant around his chest. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sending crystal. Moments that felt like ages passed before he heard the word that made him feel safer than Skyhold ever did. "Amatus," Grayson opened his eyes to see Dorians' face reflected in the calm flames of the campfire, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I just wanted to check in," Trevelyan lied.

"My love, you may excel at a lot of things, slaying demons, reshaping continents...but lying isn't one of them. Your heart is heavy, I can feel it as though it were my own. Talk to me."

"I hate talking to you through reflections, Dorian. Whether I see your face in the quake of flames, or the ripples of a lakeside...it's not the same."

"Magic isn't perfect, as you know, had I the power to bring you to me at the snap of a finger, the world would burn because we wouldn't get anything done," Dorian said cheekily in a veiled attempt to lift Grayson's spirits.

"I'm serious Dorian." Much to no avail.

"I know. I hate it too," he replied, "come to me my love, Minrathous is lovely this time of year."

"You know I can't," Grayson replied quickly, growing increasingly tired or Dorian's attempts to make light of their situation.

"You mean you won't," Dorian threw back bluntly, "you thought it yourself earlier, Grayson. This stupid quest to save someone who doesn't want to be saved may actually be the thing that kills you!"

Grayson's brow furrowed, "Where did you-"

"You know the crystal does more than just allow me to converse with you. This magic may not be perfect but it does give me a window into your mind. You can't lie to me, so it's best you stop trying and save us both some time." Grayson met Dorians' gaze through the flicker of the fire. A look into those dark pools and all frustration faded from him. " I don't want to fight, Amatus."

"Me neither," he conceded, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustrations out on you."

"So you found the Ghilain Clan then? I take it Ameridans' lineage didn't bare much fruit?"

"If it did it was taken with them when they left. I guess I'd hoped that this particular clan may have records of something that the others did not. Some secret they protected from the Ancient Age or earlier maybe. But their keepers library was basically a mirror image of near everything I've seen so far. I've searched every alienage of every major city in Thedas, searched the libraries of all the old Circles of Magi that didn't burn in the revolt, scoured Chantry records from the Anderfells to Antiva City...if the Dalish Clans continue to turn up nothing...I fear I don't know what to try next." Grayson suddenly felt an incredible wave of defeat. It was like a rock on the chest that pierced his breast plate right to his centre. Throughout every struggle that came with the Breach, the Anchor, the Orlesian game of court, the Qunari invasion, he always remained optimistic. He now feared his ability to be so was lost with the elves.

"Oh Amatus," Dorian began, his heart breaking twice; once for the heart break of seeling his beloved so subdued, and magnified by the actual feeling of it, "you cannot be so concerned with what comes next _all_ of the time," he added, "otherwise one misses what is happening in the now. You made every effort, explored every lead and every option. If we cannot thwart Fen'Harel-"

"Don't call him that," Grayson snapped with a venom that virtually dripped from his lips.

"If we can't thwart_ Solas_," obliged Dorian threw gritted teeth, "...before he destroys the world, then Maker knows we will thwart him the very second he tries, all of us, together."

"_All _of us?" Grayson retorted. "There is no us anymore, Dorian. After Solas left through the Eluvian...after Bull turned on us...after Stroud died...after the Inquisition was infiltrated by spies...I had no choice but to release them from the noose that the Inquisition had become. Everyone who made it through all that deserves what happiness...what purpose they've found. I can't ask them to give that up to fight another war. Cassandra, Tom, Sera, Josephine, Cole, Cullen-"

"All know that they owe what purpose and happiness they have found to the Inquisitor. To _you_. because of _your_ sacrifices, just as I do. And they, and I, will drop everything at once to take up your cause once again. Maker knows Leliana would take off her silly Divine hat to answer a call from you before a call from Him!" Grayson hung on every word, he felt them as profoundly as he did the heat from the fire on his face and the smell of burning wood in his nose.

"How is it you always know just what to say when I have my pity parties?" Trevelyan smiled.

"Luckily I have time to rehearse because you're not a man who often wallows in pity. Another reason I love you by the way. Plus, thinking on your feet is essential for keeping ones head on ones shoulders when meeting with the Magisterium!" Dorian joked however sincerely. Grayson rolled his eyes with a grin. Reading Graysons' expression, Dorian continued, "you're tired my love. I can feel it so I know you can. Choose your enemies, Amatus, don't make sleep one of them."

"Ever the voice of wisdom," he uttered through the same grin. "I left Harding chasing a lead at an Inn just off of the West Road, a merchant drunkenly boasting about trading supplies to a group of travelling elves supposedly headed toward Ostagar. I'll check back in with you when I leave the Inn. Please try to keep your head on those shoulders in the meantime," Grayson jibed. Dorian's smile flickered in the fire and reflected brightly in Trevelyan's green eyes. Dorian knew he would sleep all the better knowing he'd lifted his spirits, even if just a little.

"Says the man sleeping alone in the forest in an abandoned camp!"Dorian uttered light-heartedly, "really I think you want me to lay awake at night with worry!"

"Goodnight," Grayson breathed, his grip on the pendent loosening and the visage of Dorian fading from bright flame to smoke.

"Amatus wait," Grayson gripped the pendent tight, "promise me. P-promise me that...that if Harding's lead is another dead end, that you'll head straight for the nearest port along the coast of the Waking Sea, get on the quickest vessel you can find, whether it be a pirate ship or the back of a fucking mermaid...and come to me."

"Dorian," Grayson began.

"I'm not saying abandon your quest...I know asking you to give up would be like trying to get Varric not to cheat at a game of Wicked Grace, but just come to me, be _with_ me, just for a while. The Dread W- _Solas_...isn't going anywhere. It's been three years since the crossroads and he still hasn't made any serious move for power. We can steal some time together surely. Can't we? Please tell me that we can." Grayson paused for a while, his heart beating so boldly it almost dented his breast armour, his eyes stinging from trying to feign strength, ignoring how futile that attempt is because of the crystal he loathed and loved. He blinked away a single tear. He opened his mouth to speak but his breath caught in his throat. He cut his gaze from Dorian and shot it to the canopy of withered trees above him.

"I love you, Dorian," was all he could manage, the sense of defeat stronger than it ever was.

"Grayson-"

"I'll talk to you when I get to Harding, alright?" Trevelyan said hurriedly.

"Grayson!"

With that Trevelyan let go of the pendent and tucked it behind his armour, feeling the warmth against his skin. The fire dimmedand Dorian's voice was carried away with the smoke. The loud silence of the clans camp grew deafening as Trevelyan lay his head on the ground and closed his eyes. In that moment, the only thing stronger than his want for an end to what felt like an increasingly likely suicide mission, was his want for dreams of Minrathous at summertime, of nights not spent sleeping alone to fill his head for the remaining hours of darkness until the sun woke him in the morning.

When morning came, Trevelyan washed his face as best he could in a stream that ran the outskirts of the camp. He knelt beside the stream and while letting his bottle fill he allowed his gaze to wander. It fell on a small pile of stones, possibly arranged as a shrine or grave, just down the stream. He got to his feet and wandered over, blinking away the night terrors of demons that had plagued him the night before. The carvings on the stone were ages withered, whoever or whatever the stones commemorated was another mystery lost to time. Beside the stones lay a small velveteen book, undamaged by rain or scavengers. Trevelyan, sapped of hope of finding anything other than a deep mushroom stew recipe, almost bitterly kicked the book into the stream. Fighting this urge he raised the book to his eyes and unfolded the cover. The name '_Lanaya_' was scribbled in ink on the parchment. He went to turn it over when something silently fell from between the pages to the ground. Upon quick glance the book revealed itself to be the personal journal of the clan's Keeper. The last written words were a brief entry reading, "_some have confessed to hearing the howl of the Dread Wolf's temptation in the forest winds. Can it be true? Has the Dread Wolf called on us? I've sent a raven to the surrounding clans and called for early Arlathvhen. Mythal keep us."_ Trevelyan's head began to spin.

Finally something. He didn't know exactly what. But _something_. Not just ghosts and empty beds. His capacity for hope that ran like a dry well suddenly burst like a dam, flooding every vein in his body. He crouched to the ground and discovered it was a Wicked Grace card of the Serpent of Deceit that had fallen from within the pages. Sprawled on the back, as if written with such haste that whoever Keeper Lanaya was, Trevelyan knew that it was one of the last things she did before the change, perhaps the last thing she did before the Dread Wolf's howl whispered to her too.

_-Bones of an immortal  
-Feather of a Griffon  
-The tears of a High Dragon  
-Mercy of a Demon  
-Blood of a hero._

Trevelyan's legs began to buckle beneath him. He had no idea at that point what he'd discovered, but knew it was something crucial. It had to be. Suddenly his excitement broke at the sound of a raven squawking at the streams edge. Other than Trevelyan, this raven was the first bit of life this camp had seen in years, its gaze fixed on Grayson's green eyes. Trevelyan tucked the serpent card into Keeper Lanaya's diary and deposited it into his sack. He edged to the bird, who didn't flinch or avert its gaze, and noticed the small rolled note tied to its leg. He knelt to take the note and unrolled it, his heart beating so fast, a satisfied smile growing on his face. Finally, after all this time, after everything, every night spent alone with only bugs for company if he was lucky, the tide was in his favour. He hurriedly scrutinised the note under the gaze of his green eyes. His smile faded, his strength feigned. He dropped to his knees, so hard that he disrupted the stones beside him. The raven cried out one last time before taking to the skies and leaving the scene and Trevelyan alone once again. The note dropped into the stream and the ink began to wash away. It once read;

_Inquisitor Trevelyan,  
Josephine Montilyet is dead. You must go to Kirkwall at once. I fear for the rest of you. For my love. For us all.  
Admiral Isabela of the Raiders of the Waking Sea._


	2. Lowtown Loot and Hightown Favours

Chapter Two; Lowtown Loot and Hightown Favours.  
The Hanged Man was Isabela's favourite place in Kirkwall. The ale was strong, the men were stupid, the women were brazen, and the rats knew to avoid your path. She surveyed the room around her. The tavern maids (she used the term 'tavern' as loosely as she could) swanned around the tables populated by drunkards as though performing a dance only they knew the steps to, quickly and fiercely knocking back the biggest and brawniest man should any advances be made to their rear-ends as they frolicked from one corner to another. Fat bellied patrons jeered with their companions about conquests made in all aspects of work, hunt and women. A young fair-haired bard played the flute next to the languished fire place, a cloaked traveller subtly knocked his head from side to side to the sweet tune adjacent to her. The snores of a haggard dwarf with his head in a pool of dried drool, and Maker only knows what else, provided a subtle undertone to the bards melody. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the faint exclaims of a whore in the back alley ploughing her trade between the songstress' breaths. A lot had changed in Kirkwall since Isabela first entered the Lowton establishment. The Qunari had laid waste to the entire city and sat in the Viscount's seat in Hightown, his severed head at their feet, there was an explosion ignited by a mad mage at the city's chantry so powerful that the bed posts of the furthest hut in Dusktown quaked while the city was covered in a cloud of smoke, dust and debris. An explosion that resulted in the cities mage rebellion and an impending exalted march started a conflict that spread across Thedas between The Templar Order and the Circle of Magi. Though despite all of this, the Hanged Man had remained untouched. It was as if the veil itself stood between it and all these threats; like the Maker himself would not be able to summon a storm strong enough to reduce the place to bricks and embers.

Although Isabela felt most at home at sea and with the raiders, the fixed port of the Hanged Man was as close a second as anything had ever come. It was a beacon for those of all economic standpoints looking to escape the woes of life as well as blissfully indulge in them. She took a sharp breath in to appreciate the smell of sweat, smoke, sex and dirt. All that was missing was a little sea water.

An exclamation came as if from nowhere, "_Isabela_!" She'd gotten lost in her thoughts amidst a high stakes game of Cut the Deck with the landlord. A crowd had gathered around the two as Isabela had continuously and highly unlikely always picked the higher card. The landlord had already lost every coin in his purse, every heirloom in his possession and despite running out of things to barter, was determined not to lose face and that the pirate queens' luck just had to run out sooner or later.

"Alright alright no need to shout, you'll scare the rats away, Mr Langdon. Can't go losing your best customers now can you" she retorted.

"Just draw," he ordered. Mr Langdon was a balding man, a god-fearing, earnest and proud man, much to a fault and quite the rare find in a city such as Kirkwall. He was well respected across Lowtown and Isabela had only indulged this gamble as long as she had because she was never one to disappoint an audience.

"There's no shame in conceding, you know. What have you left? Do you really want to be reduced to nothing but your pants in front of all these fine people?" Langdon snorted, convinced his luck, and the trick card a dancing barmaid had slipped him while Isabela was lost in thought would win him the game.

"Right, final draw. If I win, I get all me stuff back..." Isabela raised her hands from the table and nodded in acceptance. Though Mr Langdon did have some pretty trinkets, they wouldn't fetch much at market anyway and she only planned to discard them in Darktown in the hopes a begging child might happen upon them, "...and that beauty of a ship you've got down at t' docks...you throw in tha' as well," he added with a firm finger pressed against the centre of the makeshift table they played at. Isabela's ship was her most prized possession. It had sheltered her at sea when her love was in hiding after the mage uprising. Carried her from Rivain to Nevarra with her raider shipmen, weathered the strongest storm and Kraken alike.

"That ship is made of the finest Rivaine oak and steel and is worth countless gold more than your grandmothers cheap wedding ring from the dogs breath end of some Ferelden swamp," she spat back, leaning across the table to meet his smug gaze. Nobody disrespected her ship, honest man or otherwise.

"Well if ye 'fraid ye lucks run dry, love..." Mr Langdon clearly knew how to orchestrate a crowd too as they sniggered with him and bumped shoulders.

"Fine. If you win, the _Queen Naishe_ is yours," Mr Langdon bared his brown teeth in excitement, "but should I win...you sign the Hanged Man over to me," she uttered with a squint of the eyes. Her still gaze cut the corners of Langdon's smile like twin-swords as his lips clipped shut and his brow furrowed. The crowd of onlookers grew larger, as did the vein running down Langdon's forehead and the sweat ran quicker down his back. He paused for a moment.

"Ladies first," he gestured toward the deck of cards. To the untrained eye, one wouldn't have noticed the card tucked in his sleeve. But a master of sleight of hand such as she need only have open eyes to spot a cheater.

"A gentlemen would shake on it," she retorted playfully. Langdon rolled his eyes and stretched his hand across the table. She took it somewhat awkwardly and leaned back confidently in her chair. She cut the deck and revealed the Sandy Crawler, a High Dragon tier card, one very difficultly beaten. Mr Langdon's eyes grew wide, his pupils engulfed the colour and the blood drained from his face while his hands and nostrils quivered. He paused for a while whilst the crowd hummed in anticipation. "Well?" she teased. "Cut the deck," she mimicked. He suddenly became aware that the card that was slipped to him was no longer touching the skin of his wrist. He silently prayed to any god that had ever been spoken of in any age in Thedosian history as he closed his eyes and placed his hand on the deck. He fumbled before turning it over. Reluctant to open his eyes but praying for his anguish to be over he set his sights on what fate had chosen for him. "A Wyvern," Isabela snorted, clapping two hands together. She rose to her feet knocking her chair over behind her in the same motion, the crash disturbing the rhythm of the snoring dwarf to her right. "Well Mr Langdon, pleasure doing business as always," she winked as she made to collect the cards from the table. Her wrists were quickly seized in Langdon's grasp.

"If you reckon f'one minute I'm lettin you put your name above tha' there door-" before he could finish his empty threat, Isabela had already severed the grip he had on her, bound over the table and created her own grip on him, one hand pressed his arms behind his back between his shoulder blades and the other flat on his bald head, forcing his nose into the dirty table. A proud and honest man he may have been, but he was also quite the sore loser, and she knew even the most devout Mother could strike like a viper after a flagon or four. The humming of the crowd silenced while Langdon winced as she inched his hands up towards his neck and leaned harder on the back of his head. The bard continuing to play in the background. She felt his resistance feign and gradually loosened her hold on him. "Place your hands on any woman like that again and it'll be the last time you have hands," she breathed matter-of-factly in his ear. The crowd parted and she made calmly for the door. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Langdon's grandmothers ring. She tossed it like salt over her shoulder back towards the scene, Langdon turned to watch it roll to his feet and sighed. Allowing the light of the afternoon into the tavern she pushed the door open. From the doorway, her head turned slightly so that she could still see him through her hair as she called, "I'll have Viscount Tethras see to the paperwork before the day is done." The door slammed behind her.

Once outside she was met with the bustle of the market place in the afternoon. The sun was warm on her back and the wails of the whore grew louder in her ears. She took a knife from her boot and reached to remove Langdon's name from above the door. "I thought I'd find you here. Although never pegged you for a petty vandal," spoke a familiar voice behind her. She smiled in recognition but did not turn or cease to pick at the shoddily upholstered plaque.

"At this point you should've learned its best not to ask," she replied. She felt two firm hands on her waist followed by her boots leaving the ground. The owner of the voice had lifted her and she removed the plaque with ease before returning gently to the ground. Those same hands softly turned her by the shoulders and she met the glare of a tall and dark shaggy haired man with whom her heart belonged. He kissed her lips and pulled back to read her.

"Hmm," he began, "not a hair out of place..._you've_ been fighting."

"And _you_ left early this morning," she said falling into him, tracing her fingers on his chest.

"I'm sorry, Varric wanted me to look over the latest propaganda from Madame De Fer while he met with the Merchants Guild," he said tiredly.

"Well next time you see our lovely Viscount tell him I have a job for him."

"You can tell him yourself," Hawke answered, "I'm headed that way now."

As Hawke and Isabela ascended the steps of Viscounts Keep she began to round off the story of how she had came to acquire ownership of Kirkwall's landmark watering hole, much to Hawke's admiration and amusement. "Well a pirate Queen's crown can never be too full of jewels," he gestured with a wave of his arms as they crossed the threshold.

"Exactly, see you get it. I wonder if our honourable Viscount would be willing to barter with this place," she queried as her eyes took in the great halls around her. Sconces burned brightly against the walls, casting dancing light up the sides of polished armoured suits and portraits of important people that the people of Lowtown had likely never heard of. Grand windows allowed in the heat and light of the warm afternoon that lay on the most magnificently sewn crimson carpets that ran from the entrance and up the staircases. Isabela wondered whether the carpets were purely decorative or a ploy by the servants to cover up the blood stained stoned floor that no amount of soap and elbow grease could remove.

"Master Hawke," croaked a frail woman's voice to their left.

"Grand Cleric," Hawke replied as he faced to meet her. Grand Cleric Greta was an aged woman to whom the years had not been kind. Her back hunched as she leant on a less than sturdy walking stick that almost tore the crimson carpet beneath it as she walked to them, her spine probably struggling to take the weight of her robes. She slouched in front of Hawke who seemed to tower over her tenfold.

"Well don't you look cross," Isabela added, slightly amused

"_Cross_ is just one of the things I am today young Lady," she shot back with a shake of her small fist.

"What's he done now?" Hawke asked with a roll of the eyes.

"It's what he hasn't done!" she replied angrily, "he hasn't returned a single correspondence in days regarding final preparations for the pilgrimage of the faithful or the final phases of the Chantry's reconstruction...and now he's locked himself in that forsaken office of his and is refusing to see anyone! And to top it off-" Hawke could see the small woman getting increasingly red faced while small portions of spit began to gather in the corners of her thin lips as she struggled for breath and so interjected quickly.

"I will consult with the master of coin myself and see that the final stages of reconstruction are started by week's end earliest, Grand Cleric. I will also have talks with Guard Captain Aveline to ensure that your faithful have safe passage along the Wounded Coast for the pilgrimage." Her thin lips parted again but before she could draw breath into her lungs, Hawke added, "and I'll be sure to have a raven sent to the Chantry with any further details should they arise, alright?"

"I-I suppose that will do for now, Champion. You have my thanks," she uttered with a courteous bow of the head. "Should you manage to get an audience yourself with his royal annoyance-"

"We'll of course make your displeasure the first topic of conversation," interrupted Isabela as she pulled on Hawke's arm and motioned him around the Grand Cleric and towards the office of the Viscount. "Although I expect the chill in the air and the withered plants may be clue enough," she added under her breath.

"Yeah, she gives me the creeps too," Hawke agreed as the pair headed towards the office of the Viscount.

"I'm busy!" shouted Varric in annoyance at a knock on his door. Isabela scoffed as she turned the knob on the door only to find it locked. She glanced at Hawke who had already made an effortless gesture with his hand to unlock it. She pushed it open. "What possible connotation of _busy_ makes you think you can-" Varric began as he looked up from his desk. His blonde hair was tied back as always while his chest hair protruded from beneath his finely stitched smart wear. "Oh, it's only you two. Y'know, Hawke I could have someone make that door magic proof."

"Maybe, but if you could find a smith that could make it Isabela proof as well I'll eat my hat," he replied.

"Bah," he gestured, "Rivaini never met a lock she couldn't pick." Varric's desk was littered with paperwork that would probably challenge the dwarf in height.

"Just some light reading I see?" Isabela asked rhetorically as she carelessly brushed the stack of parchments away to make room so she could sit down.

"I had just got that organised!" he said with pinched eyes and rubbing his brow firmly. She shrugged and folded her legs while Hawke took a seat in a vacant chair opposing the desk.

"What is it today then, Varric? The sun is shining, the markets are buzzing, childen play gaily in the square...there must be an invasion headed our way," Hawke joked.

"Nothing like that," Varric began.

"Oh c'mon, perhaps a coo? An uprising? Cat stuck up a tree?"

"Only thing that can get itself stuck up a damn tree is that holier than thou Grand Cleric," he said, a similar smile stretching across each of their faces. "But it's good that you're here, I need a favour."

"Ah, a Champions' work is never done it seems," Hawke replied slightly pushing out his chest.

"Actually I was talking to Isabela," he said moving his gaze to her. She shot him a bewildered look from atop his desk. "Seems that there's still a lot of bad blood with the noble houses of Orlais and Rivain and the Montilyet's trading ships are getting ambushed crossing the Amaranthine. Ruffles has asked for help getting what she needs in and out of Antiva."

"I thought the Lady Josephine had an armada of House of Repose assassins turned deck hands at her disposal?" Hawke queried.

"It seems a life of espionage and blood is a stronger calling than the call of honour and the sea, I don't know. She's asked if Kirkwall will help in any way it can," replied Varric.

"And by Kirkwall you mean me," Isabela squinted.

"You've got the ship, you've got the raiders...plus haven't you been on dry land a little too long?"

"Don't go talking dirty to me now, Varric."

"All I'm asking is make one trip to Antiva City, let Ruffles use the Queen Naishe's hold for her cargo, take the long route to Orlais and make a little show of force with the Raiders should anybody try get in your way. That's all," he said darting his gaze back to his desk as he knew full well it wasn't a favour as small as he tried to make it sound.

"I suppose this Lady Josephine would like me to stand at attention as soon as possible," she exhaled.

"But wait, Grand Enchanter Vivienne and her seniors from the reformed Circle are on their way to begin talks next week on building a Circle in the city's old alienage in a few days, I can't very well mediate that and sail for Antiva," Hawke interjected.

"He's not asking you to, Hawke. I don't need a chaperone, I didn't when I was a fully fledged pirate and I certainly don't whilst I'm a mere post woman," she said matter-of-factly.

"That's not what I meant," he said.

"I know what you meant," she said softly, "don't worry. I won't go tumbling through the fade or battling tainted old gods dragon, that's your territory." He smiled sheepishly. He knew he had put her through a lot over the years. The two shared a look that neither wanted to pull away from.

"Aw isn't that sweet," Varric said through rolled eyes, "so it's settled then. Rivaini, I'll have your ship buffed and ready to leave the docks in the morning." She and Hawke got up from their seats, Isabela deliberately created more mess on Varric's desk as she did so, and headed to leave. "Oh and pick me up some Antivan arrow heads on your way back, would you?" she cursed back at him as she slammed the door behind her. "Bianca and I need to shake the dust off and get in some target practice," he said to himself while gazing earnestly at the crossbow that hung to the wall.


End file.
